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Updated: June 2, 2025
Then she braced herself to bear it, for she realized that it was the flood which must inevitably follow the breaking down of the dykes that for months had pent in the seas of a daily and hourly agony such as a weaker soul than that of Beatrix could never know. It was long before Beatrix dared trust her voice to speak, and then Miss Gannion was startled at the utter dreariness of her tone.
Miss Gannion asked. "Whether we ought to tell Miss Dane," he answered briefly. "It will kill her." The feminine in Margaret Gannion was uppermost once more. "Such wounds are more likely to mangle than to kill." Thayer spoke grimly. "Poor Beatrix!" "She does love him, then? I didn't see how she could help it." Margaret Gannion's hands shut on a fold of her skirt.
I've not congratulated him yet. That was one thing that brought me here." Beatrix flushed a little. "Mr. Lorimer was called to Washington, last Thursday," she answered so evenly that no one would have suspected the wondering annoyance which his hasty note of explanation had caused her. "Then he was here for your recital." Miss Gannion turned back to Thayer once more.
At first I took it as a matter of course. I know better now, and I know that you and Miss Van Osdel must have given up some things for the sake of helping me along." Miss Gannion paused, before she answered. "Otto," she said at length; "I am a lonely woman, and my life has been broader for knowing you. I mean that you in the plural, for there have been a good many of you.
Who could foretell what its resurrection would be? Or when? Or where? "Otto, how does it feel to be a celebrity?" Miss Gannion asked abruptly, one afternoon in late May. The young German smiled. "How should I know?" "From experience, of course. Your artistic probation appears to be over.
You have it in your power to save Beatrix Dane. Once you were willing to do it." She had risen and stood on the rug, facing him. Stung by his coldness and by her disappointment in him, she allowed a sudden note of hostility to creep into her voice, and it cut Thayer like the edge of a steel knife. "I am sorry," he said, after a pause; "but it is too late for that now, Miss Gannion."
All that day, she had denied herself to callers; not even Sally Van Osdel had been admitted. Ten minutes before Miss Gannion came, Beatrix would have said that she too must be sent away; but, as she read the name on the card, she felt a sudden impulsive longing to see her old-time friend. Miss Gannion wasted no words on conventional greeting. "You dear child!" she said quietly.
Bobby started to his feet, faced about, and stood looking down at the little figure of his hostess. "Miss Gannion, Beatrix and I have been chums ever since we could go alone. In fact, we learned to go alone by hanging on to each other's hands. I love her as a fellow without any sisters is bound to love a girl cousin; and I'll be blest if I can keep quiet and see her throw herself away."
He might be growing larger; he was certainly growing more remote from her life. Miss Gannion cared for Thayer. Now, while she watched him, her eyes were lighted with an almost fierce affection, even though her disappointment made her voice take on a hard, metallic ring, as she asked, "Are you turning your back upon the problem of your old friend, Mr. Thayer?"
"Yes, or the angels," Sally responded for him. "Nothing else could have such a fatal facility for harping on one string." "I was so sorry to lose your recital, Mr. Thayer," Miss Gannion said, after a while, as she turned her steady brown eyes on the young man. "I was in Boston, that week, and I am told that I missed one of the treats of the season. When am I to have another chance of hearing you?"
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